


Cultural Contamination

by volley



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Episode: s02e08 The Communicator, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volley/pseuds/volley
Summary: Friend in Need. Coda to The Communicator. Trip helps Malcolm come to terms with the events of the day.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Cultural Contamination

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remake of the very first story I wrote (which has never been published on this site). It wishes to set right what I think was a bad depiction of Malcolm Reed in that episode, which I found out of character.  
> A great big thankyou to my beta reader RoaringMice!

Trip raised his hand to trigger the sickbay doors open and winced. The idea of looking straight through his cloaked “appendage” – as the doctor had called it – gave him the creeps; so, as soon as he was sure of being out of Phlox’s sight, he slipped the glove on again. Right now, for some reason, he felt inclined to agree with Malcolm, who found the good doctor’s unfailing cheerfulness ‘awfully annoying’.

Trip trudged along the corridor feeling every bit of the tension of that long day plus a good dose of unease, which was not the right concoction if one was hoping to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe he should first make a detour and check on Malcolm. He was sure the obstinate man was blaming himself for the day’s events, and that he would be struggling, stuck in the quagmire of his inflexible conscience.

After the ironic incident when, after risking death because of Malcolm’s lost communicator, Archer had dropped his own on the floor of the cell ship, the ride from the planet had been carried out in almost total silence, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts; and no wonder, after all they had all gone through, captives and rescuers. Trip shuddered as the image of Archer and Reed with a noose around their necks replayed in his mind: the rescue team had got there just in the nick of time.

The Captain was going to be okay. Right now, he was probably getting the umpteenth lecture on the dangers of cultural contamination from T’Pol. The mental image brought a silly smile to his lips just as Rostov rounded the bend in the corridor, and the man cast him a funny glance. His ‘lost’ hand already attracted enough attention as it was, he’d better not lead people to think that he was also losing his marbles, so Trip schooled his features, nodding to his subordinate as they passed each other. Michael nodded back, both the picture of professionalism.

Yes, the Captain would be alright, he would put the incident behind him soon enough, but Malcolm… Malcolm was another story. Well, here he was at Reed’s door. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could be in his own quarters, to try and get some shuteye.

Trip rang the bell. _Time to indulge in your favorite pastime, Loo-tenant, the Baring of the Soul_.

* * *

In the dimmed light of his quarters, Malcolm was stretched out on his bunk, with one arm under his head and his eyes closed. After they had docked, he had quickly made his way to his room. He knew he ought to have passed by Sickbay first, let Phlox have a look at his bruises; he had told himself that he just couldn’t stomach facing the ear-to-ear grin with which the doctor would undoubtedly welcome him, but the truth was that he wanted to hide away in his quarters.

The moment he had set foot in his room he had dropped onto the bed like a rag doll, all energy suddenly gone. He was still wearing those ridiculous clothes that had been meant to make them unobtrusively mingle with the natives.

His doorbell startled him. _What now! Unless there is a Bird-o-prey threatening to blow up the ship, leave me alone, whoever you are!_ he screamed in his mind. But instead he heard himself say, “Come,” in a hoarse voice that did not sound like his own.

The door opened and a dark figure was silhouetted against the light of the corridor. Only one person would show up at his door at 11 pm, especially after a day like they’d had: Commander Charles Tucker III, otherwise known as Trip.

Malcolm pushed himself to a sitting position, turning his head slightly to the side to hide a grimace of pain. When had his body begun to ache like that?

Trip, of course, would not be fooled. “You okay?” he asked. And when no answer came, he quickly added, “I didn’t think you’d be asleep already.”

He sounded sincerely sorry for barging in uninvited.

“I wasn’t really. Just relaxing,” Malcolm croaked out, turning the light up a little. “Come in,” he felt obliged to ask, “lest you catch a cold.”

His attempt at making light had been spoilt by the sheer exhaustion in his voice, but Trip smiled all the same and took a couple of steps inside, allowing the door to swish closed.

“Right, then, what is it?” Malcolm asked directly, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice in spite of his best intentions. He really wasn’t in the mood for company.

His brusque change of tone might have discouraged anyone else, but _Mister Tucker_ only cast him an odd glance. “I thought I’d come ‘n give you a good night kiss and tuck you in,” Trip quipped.

Malcolm studied Trip’s face and found that the man was doing the same with his, a hint of concern marring his usually sunny features. He immediately felt like an S.O.B. “Look, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Truth is, I’m still a bit on edge.”

“You don’t say.” Trip shrugged. “Just wanted to check on you. After we docked, you were gone in a flash. I thought I’d see you in Sickbay,” he said, eloquently raising his gloved hand, “but I should’ve known better.”

“Your hand, of course…” Malcolm frowned, eyes darting from Trip’s face to his gloved appendage. “Any improvements?”

“It finally decided to come back from its leave of absence, bless it, but with a cute little hole in the middle. Looks like somethin’ you used for target practice. But Phlox says it’ll be ok, _eventually._ ”

Still seated on his bed, Reed rubbed his tired eyes. “Don’t just stand there,” he said, motioning Trip to the chair near his desk. The man didn’t need to be asked twice. He too looked quite tired. Mounting a rescue in a cloaked Suliban cell ship you had never flown before couldn’t have been a walk in the park.

“Brilliant idea, using that Suliban ship,” Malcolm said, grateful that their Chief Engineer had such marvellous creative skills.

Trip waved his gloved hand again. “Aside from the side-effects, it had its fun aspects.” Leaning forward with his arms on his knees, he gently enquired, “So, how are you feeling? And I mean really.”

Malcolm heaved a deep, introspective sigh. “Not too bad, for a man who came this close to being hanged.” His voice had dropped very deep and he glanced to see whether Trip had detected the restrained emotion in it, but he could not tell. “Sacrifice our lives to avoid cultural contamination…” Malcolm blurted out, unwillingly revealing what still troubled him.

“That’s a helluva thing to ask a man, I’ll grant you that,” Trip said with a wince.

Malcolm wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss what had happened on the planet with anyone, not even with Archer, who had been there; the words, however, just seemed to roll out of his mouth.

“I told the Captain that I wasn’t afraid of dying,” he began. “He seemed… resigned, while I kept pacing like a caged animal.” Malcolm closed his eyes tightly against the images that assaulted him, which he would rather forget. “I was… angry. Furious! Nothing to do but wait to be slaughtered and for what? For a concept, _c_ _ultural contamination_. Surely people’s lives are more important?”

He opened his eyes again and searched Trip’s, seeking reassurance, but the man, in a soft voice, as if mulling the words as he pronounced them, said, “’Tis more than a concept, unfortunately.”

Whatever stirred in Malcolm, surged violently to the surface. “For heaven’s sake, Trip! We had already contaminated those people! They believed we were enemy soldiers!” He jumped to his feet and paced the length of his room, ending up leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, defensive. “They had our communicators and phase pistols, not to mention the fact that they had seen us bleed _red_ and had taken medical scans, which had revealed a different physiology,” he spat out darkly, in his sharpest British accent. “They became convinced that their enemies had phaser weapons and augmented soldiers: wasn’t _that_ contamination enough?”

Malcolm saw Trip wince as he took in his bruises. “You oughtta let Phlox have a look at you,” the man meekly suggested, but Malcolm made a dismissive gesture.

“I couldn’t get over it,” he snorted in sarcasm, continuing his thread of thought. “The Captain felt that we had to avoid, at all costs, _hurting_ the very people who were bent on killing us.”

“The Capt’n was bound by Starfleet directives,” Trip insisted.

Malcolm hardly heard the words. He was reliving the contrasting feelings of that hour. “Mad as I was…” he breathed out, refocusing on Trip’s blue eyes, “I couldn’t help admiring him.” He saw confusion enter Trip’s gaze, the same confusion he felt. “He was in such complete control. Captain Archer gave me the strength to walk to the scaffold, because… Well, if truth be told I was quite terrified.”

Malcolm almost hoped that Trip had not heard his last words. It was difficult for him to admit to weakness. He considered himself a courageous man. And he was. Even that time in the Shuttlepod he had managed to find strength in the end, where Trip had failed. But the idea of sacrificing his life for something as impalpable as cultural contamination… That had really derailed him.

Trip pinned him with a pointed look. “Listen, you’re only human,” he predictably told him. “And I’m pretty sure the Capt’n was just as scared as you, down there.”

Malcolm considered the words. “Perhaps, but... Captain Archer saw that my legs were refusing to carry me on and at the last moment tried to save me,” he forced out, still feeling the shame of that moment. “He told them I was a tactical officer, that I could give them information.”

“That’s Jonathan Archer all right.”

Malcolm watched Trip’s lips curve into a reassuring smile. “Don’t you see?” he burst out, “I’m the Security Officer! _I_ am supposed to save _him_ , not the opposite. My stupid carelessness almost ended up killing us both.”

Trip threw his hands up in the air. “Ah, hell, Malcolm, you’re incorrigible. What happened today was nobody’s fault. Stop beating yourself up and start acceptin’ that you’re only human,” he blew out. “We all make mistakes.”

Malcolm jerked his face away, not to show Trip the mixture of anger and shame that still stirred inside him. In the jumble of his thoughts, one suddenly elbowed its way to the forefront. He turned back and darted his friend a self-conscious glance. “Look, I never thanked you for getting us out of there,” he said, with feeling. If it hadn’t been for Trip and his brilliant mind…

Trip just shook his head. “Ah, you don’t need to thank me, you’d’ve done the same thing for me.”

“Yes, but…” before Malcolm could finish, the doorbell rang again.

Malcolm lifted his eyebrows. Another visit? He feared it would be Phlox. Shaking out of his immobility, he pushed off the wall. As it turned out, it wasn’t the good doctor.

“Captain…”

“Hope I’m not disturbing. Just wanted to drop by before I finally call it a day,” Archer said, still looking a lot more relaxed than Malcolm could ever feel, under the circumstances.

The man had obviously received Phlox’s ministrations. Malcolm could see that his bruises had been medicated.

“Sir,” Malcolm blubbered, recovering coherent speech, stepping aside to let him pass. “Commander Tucker is here too,” he added as Archer limped in, although Trip was hard to miss. He could fill a room with his mere presence.

“Capt’n. I was just leaving. Dang tired,” Trip hurried to say. He winked at Malcolm. “See you in the morning.” And he quickly slipped out of the door before it closed.

Malcolm stood stiffly at parade attention, hands behind his back. Archer’s green eyes ran him up and down, a glint of amusement in them. “If your muscles feel half as sore as mine do, you ought to relax them a little, Malcolm,” he said. “This is just a courtesy call.”

“Can’t say they’re not aching, Captain,” Malcolm admitted with a faint smile. He broke his stance and gestured Archer to a chair. “Would you like to sit down, Sir?”

“No, I won’t stay long.” Archer gave Malcolm an assessing look. “So, have you decided between time in the brig or a good flogging, Lieutenant?” he bantered.

The joke did nothing towards making Malcolm feel more at ease. “Please, Captain…” Malcolm cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “Losing my communicator is not the only thing I need to apologize for. I…” He took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I am _not_ afraid of dying, Sir. Indeed, I am fully prepared to die defending this crew, this ship; but a noose? Having committed no crime? I suddenly found I could not face it, Captain. I feel I failed you.”

Malcolm had managed to say the words looking straight in Archer’s eyes, but now he found he could no longer hold his C.O.’s openly understanding gaze. He’d honestly feel more comfortable if the man did send him to the brig.

“Your legs might have been a little stiff, Lieutenant, but I don’t seem to remember standing alone on that scaffold with a noose around my neck,” Malcolm heard him say. A hand came to clasp his arm, and Malcolm was compelled to look up again. “There is no shame in what you felt,” Archer said. “I am sorry I had to ask you what I did. Burdens of command…”

Malcolm swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Yet in the end you tried to save my life, Sir.”

It was Archer, now, who averted his gaze. A thoughtful frown creased his brow. “I’d never had to order a man under my command to go to his death. When we were brought to the scaffold and I saw you waver, I suddenly had doubts about how far one should push the issue of cultural contamination.”

“Not that I didn’t appreciated it, Captain,” Malcolm said hoarsely, “it was a noble gesture, but it made me feel...” he could not find the right words, or couldn’t summon the courage to say them, but Archer just knew, for with a grin he said, “Didn’t mean to steal your job, Lieutenant. Saving lives is usually your department, and you’ve been doing it just fine.”

Malcom tensed, and Archer, pinning him with a narrow-eyed look, added, “My loyalty to you may have made me want to find a way to save your life, but _your_ loyalty to _me_ made you follow me to our supposed death. Because though you were torn inside, you did follow me, Lieutenant, you did intend to obey your Captain’s order. I’d say you don’t have much to feel ashamed of.”

The words lifted a heavy weight off Malcolm’s heart. It was a thought worth considering.

“And now stop brooding and get to sleep,” Archer said with a change of tone. “And that’s another order.”

“One I’ll be glad to obey, Sir,” Malcolm replied meaningfully.

Archer stepped out into the corridor. Just before the door swished closed, he poked his head inside again. “I don’t want to see you around before o-nine-hundred tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“And don’t forget to pass by Sickbay, before coming to the bridge. Phlox was pretty peeved you haven’t let him treat your bruises.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Ah, one last thing, Lieutenant, “Archer said, once again preventing the door from closing. “That report to Starfleet you wanted to write…”

Malcolm stood rod straight. “I’ll have it ready by tomorrow evening, Captain.”

Archer’s eyebrows lifted. He hesitated a moment, then with an impish smile he said, “Very well, if you insist.”

This time the door did close.

_Ah! Silence… privacy… relief…!_

Malcolm felt drained of all energy. Without even undressing, he kicked his shoes off and threw himself supine on his bed. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was already slipping away when his eyes flashed open: why on earth had Archer sported a malicious grin when he had promised to have the report for Starfleet ready by the next day?...

Oh hell! Malcolm scrunched his eyes tightly. When he had asked to write it, he hadn’t realized yet that he had lost his communicator… now he’ll have to give a detailed account of his own carelessness and of…

Reed groaned in misery, but his mind was already losing its grip on reality. Let each day carry its own burden. He turned on his side and decided to give his worries a rest.

* * *

Trip triggered his door open and stepped in. He heaved a deep sigh. Mission accomplished. Captain and Armoury Officer rescued. Crew to full complement.

All right, his hand was still “holy”, he thought with a wince after spying under the glove that covered it, but he trusted Phlox, the Denobulan doctor had never failed them.

Trip discarded his uniform and stepped in the bathroom for a quick shower.

Yeah, Malcolm would be alright, just like the Captain, he mused as he let the warm water ease his taut muscles. Reed might brood for a day or two, but there was a staunchness, a resilience in the man that made him feel certain that he would be okay.

Trip dried himself off. The little detour to Malcolm’s room had done himself some good too. The unease he had felt coming out of Sickbay, when a general tension was still in the air, had all but gone.

Now he really ought to try and get that shuteye.

As Trip lay in bed, watching the soothing sight of the stars streaking by out of his porthole, he mused that the most delicate part of his mission, the one he felt more proud of, had actually been getting Malcolm to open up a little, not keep everything bottled up inside.

“You owe me one, Loo-tenant,” he mumbled.

Dispelling a nagging feeling that the Armoury Officer would have plenty of opportunities to pay him back, he closed his eyes and let the hum of the warp engine lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Always grateful for any comments you'll want to leave


End file.
